


Playthings

by Thorny-Beck (kabrox18)



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Other, babys first second person fic, dubcon, go easy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 02:20:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21729928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kabrox18/pseuds/Thorny-Beck
Summary: You are an Autobot, and you’ve just had the misfortune of being captured with your squad by the ruthless Decepticon leader himself.
Relationships: Megatron/OC
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> warnings and such: facesitting, dubcon, size difference, blatant misuse of medical knowledge

You’d been expecting execution, frankly. An impersonal firing squad of lowly Vehicons offing you in the back of the brig and tossing your corpse into the recycling furnace.

But, here you sit, arms curled around your knees, as Megatron waits patiently at the door. Only his eyes are turned down to you, giving him an eerie appearance as he steps into the dim, grimy light of your cell. The Warden slithers off, muttering something in the Primal Vernacular. Megatron smirks.

The door closes.

“Up,” the warlord orders. You stand, pushing off the wall halfassedly and never really meeting his eyes. Unfortunately, he turns your chin up with one thick talon, leaning in and swallowing your view with his breadth. “You are lucky,” he hums, tilting your head this way and that. Examining you. _Appraising_ you. He even leans back, eyes clawing their way up and down your frame. Creepy.

“Why’s that?” You croak. Vocoder’s fuzzed from shouting at your team and the Vehicons and everyone who even paid half-attention.

“You have pretty enough features,” he replies. So what, he’ll steal your face or something? Sounds like something the monster would do. But no, he pulls his hand away, and nods to the stiff, sturdy cot to the side. “On your back,” he commands, and you shrug, stepping over. You deliberately go slowly, casting a defiant glare over; his eyes narrow, brightening a fraction. Not irritated. Like he’s _excited._

“You’re a fucking creep,” you mutter under your breath, settling onto your back and minding your doorwings. He simply rumbles a low chuckle, stepping up.

A hundred scenarios run through your conscious—none of them turn out to be right, because he starts to climb atop the cot. It creaks very slightly at your combined weight, but holds surprisingly well. You go to sit up, only to be pushed back down, hand on your chest. For a single crazy second you wonder if the mighty Lord Megatron has some unheard-of powers like disabling sparks with a touch.

But no, he simply shuffles upward, examining you again. Like he’s fascinated by something.

“Something on my face?” you ask, then look down at the high-gloss of his chrome chest and make a face at the distorted reflection. “Guess not.”

“Not yet,” the Warlord rumbles, and _that_ tone makes you jolt, looking up at his face. The excitement is still there, and you finally put the pieces together.

“Oh. _Oh._ Is that—is that what this is? Cruel and unusual punishment by—“

“Hush,” he mutters, and sits on your face. 

Enormous steel thighs curl around your ears, warm and strong. He looks down at you and smirks lightly, the expression playing at his scarred lips. There’s the sharp taste of armor pressing to your mouth, then a swiping sensation as he moves his plating.

“Mm-mm,” you mumble against the heat of his valve, and his pupils jolt into little pinpricks for a split second. He growls, adjusting himself to brace against the wall, rolling his hips in a slow drag across your face.

“Lick.” You do so; sticking your tongue out halfway and dragging it in a lazy stripe across his node. You can see a flash of teeth, and he tilts his head, reaching down. A clawtip presses to your forehead and jabs in, threatening to push into the armor there. You tilt your chin up to lessen the pain, eyes darting to the claw and painting it in the blue glow from them. “Must I teach you how to eat a valve?” he asks, condescendingly. You glare at him.

It’s a bit ineffectual, seeing as your head is sandwiched between his thighs, _but._

You lick again, slower now, tongue hitting a different angle with the tilt of your head. It makes him shift his weight slightly, eyes dulling for a beat. Results. You get the wild idea that—maybe, just maybe, if you eat this valve well enough, he’ll spare you. Insane, but your options were dwindling faster by the moment.

He’s the image of power, poised over you almost gracefully on his knees. Staring down his nose like you’re just a _speck,_ shareware made to please him and him alone. The claw on your head thankfully moves, and you tip your head to get at his node better; it’s warm against your tongue and soft still. Not yet swollen and eager. Time to change that.

He rolls his hips again, hissing through his fangs when you abuse the motion to drag your lips and tongue deeper. You reach up, grasping blind at the curved arches of his waist armor, tugging him closer to your mouth. You hear the sound of his claws against the cell wall, and feel the rush of warm air dance across your hands as he opens his dorsal vents.

Distantly, you feel the rumble of his turbines spinning up, the low whir of the jet engines reaching you a moment later. He has some _impressive_ soundproofing in his armor. You bury your face in, licking across his valve again and feeling the new wetness there. His transfluid is sweet, actually, and you swallow it without too much second thought.

“Disgusting,” he purrs, clearly having felt your throat working around it. “Again.”

...Frankly, that voice is hard to say no to, so you lick again, curling your tongue in a scooping motion to capture as much as possible. He exhales hot air again, shifting his weight forward. A huge hand curls around the back of your helm, pushing you deeper into the warmth between his legs. Now his node is practically in your mouth, so you close your lips around it and suck.

A low noise crawls out of his throat, and his eyes flutter, grip going slack. More fluid slides down your chin, but you’re focused completely on the little nub. He jerks when you scrape teeth on it; a pretty little _ah!_ slips out. He adjusts his weight, and you wince at the feeling of pressure on your doorwings.

He doesn’t seem to care, and looks down at you with hunger in his eyes and a glimmer of teeth showing between those blackened lips.

“Did I say you could _stop?”_ he rasps, and clenches his thighs lightly, squeezing your head briefly. Enough to be a warning. It makes you gasp and release his node, to which he seems _unhappy._ You quickly start lathing it with your tongue, hoping to make it up to the greedy warlord. He relaxes, only slightly—but enough that you release the breath you’d been holding.

He shifts his grip, curling around your head and making you realize just how in _control_ he is of this. His legs pin your arms now, your doorwings trapped under his spiked knees, his thighs powerful enough to crush or snap your neck.

_Hot,_ is the first thing to come to mind.

He grumbles something, low and irritated. You can’t tell what exactly it is, but you do wait for the probable punishment he had planned for you. For failing to please him, as far as that goes.

“You are absolutely _miserable_ at this,” he huffs. “I may have been better off with the _empurata victim.”_ Ouch. He shuffles forward, gritting his fangs. “Suck, damn you.” You unsurely take his node back into your mouth, wincing when he snaps a _no._

You slide down, until your eyes are nearly covered under him, and try licking at his valve opening. Not that, either. He’s squirming, trying to think of what to say. Huh; you never imagined you’d see _Megatron_ of all mecha at a loss for words.

Then you swipe your tongue along the swell of his shroud, and he sits ramrod straight.

“ _Yeesss,”_ he exhales, “right _there.”_

Jackpot.

You take the time to lick it again, slower. You hear his armor scrape as it shifts, rolling around and fluttering with his movements. Now you’re getting somewhere! He presses himself down harder, grinding the soft lumps against your mouth insistently.

Distantly, you remember some medic-build educating everyone in that sanitized, doctor-y way about the various extra bits of anatomy between most mecha legs. _‘The_ velamen, _here, encircling the valve entrance, are extremely sensitive. A primary form of transfluid storage for large-framed bots.’_ Someone got thrown out of class that day for exclaiming, “oh, you mean the shroud!”

Large-framed put it kindly. Megatron’s weight moving again dragged you back to the present, and you wince at the sudden angry tingling running through one of your doorwings. Perfect. Turning your focus back to the warlord sitting on you was enough of a fight, but then he gripped your helm in one titanic hand like he was making to crush it.

You just breathe as calmly as possible and take one squishy-slick lump into your mouth, sucking lightly enough to drive him wild. He throws his head back, tossing it about and rocking his hips like some agitated animal.

“ _Primus_ below,” he snarls, “stop _teasing.”_ You can’t help but grin and brush teeth against it, drawing out a strangled noise. What you wouldn’t give to record the warlord coming apart over you.

He hunches when you tilt your head and suck it properly, armor rattling. You can feel the flexion of an incoming overload just a second before it happens; his eyes go impossibly wide and impossibly red, then roll back into his head as he goes limp against the wall, rolling his hips mindlessly to your face and smearing his freshly-flowing fluid all over. It’s all you can do to clumsily lick up the mess, lapping against his drooling valve and making him jerk and spasm. He was surprisingly quiet, but his throat clicks and you realize he was only quiet because he cut off his own voice.

“Good enough,” he croaks, lifting half-off you to examine the stickiness coating the lower half of your face. You just grin at him.

“Dunno, I think I did pretty fantastic.”

“You would be wise to keep your mouth shut or _busy,_ Autobot,” he growled, leaning down. In response, you swipe some of his transfluid off and lick it up. His eyes widen a fraction, pupils narrowing and fixing on the motion.

“Like that?” you ask, smugly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings n such: facefucking, dubious-, leaning on non-con, megs is a manipulative (and horny) piece of shit

You’ve been stuck here on Megatron’s stupid, melodramatic warship for a couple weeks, now. The Warden kicked you out of the dingy cell with a wave and huff, muttering something you don’t know. Apparently—according to a pair of Vehicons that clamped clawed hands on your upper arms—you’re being moved closer to Megatron’s quarters.

Great. Either he wanted to lock you into his schemes as  _ bait _ or something, or…

Well, you aren’t completely sure you wanted to think about the other option. Or the fact you’d seemingly been right about valve-eating saving your hide.

“Here,” one says, and they shove you into your new home. Kind of claustrophobic; buried in the deepest bowels of the ship. Really,  _ barely _ a step up from the brig. Probably why the high-ranked Cons weren’t here. They would all hate it. Although, how  _ close _ was this to Megatron’s quarters, really? The door closes behind you, but you shuffle yourself up onto the bed and flop onto your side. Stiff. The lights were off, so all you could see was the stuff lit by your own biolights.

The door reopens, and you hear thudding. Footsteps. You can’t be bothered to roll over and look.

“I see you’re settling in fine,” Megatron grumbles, and that’s when you sit up and twist to look at him. His red eyes stare down at you, glowing menacingly from the dark. It feels rather like deja vu.

“Be better if I wasn’t on this nasty old piece of work,” you snipe. His eyes flash and he leans down, getting in your face. You feel your doorwings wavering and dipping but you stick them  _ right _ back up in defiance.

“What was it I said last time you mouthed off?” He tilts his head.

“Keep my mouth shut?”

“Or busy.” You can hear his lip curl rather than see it, and that’s about when you find yourself being manhandled around.

“Hey-!” And then you’re smothered in heat and metal. Something in the back of your head whispers that this  _ isn’t _ a hand.

“Shh.”  _ Click. _ Oh. There went his paneling. You feel something big and warm laying half on your face, half on your helm. “Lick,” he says, and you get another wave of deja vu.

Unsurely, you do so; there’s his node, and smooth mesh curving up into something. His spike. You angle your jaw up and lick again, drawing your tongue across the base. You realize how much you’re screwing yourself over with your eyes dimmed like this, so you manually brighten them a little, concentrating so hard you feel a brow twitch.

A warm and enormous hand smooths across your helm, holding you in place as you lick again, a little more pointed this time. He had a  _ monstrous _ spike, ringed in barbs and topped with painful-looking forks.

“Hope you don’t intend to use this on  _ me _ anytime soon,” you mumble, muffled by the way he’s pressed to your face.

“We will see. If you behave, you may get out of it.” He chuckles, and you get the strong sense he’s lying. Great. You lick a little more firmly, getting a soft sigh. Lame, but he  _ did _ spring this on you without warning. Or telling you where it felt good.

“Scoot back,” you huff, pushing uselessly at his hips. He looks down at you, unimpressed, but leans back. You grab it, bobbing as it is, and hold it still long enough to stick the pronged tip in your mouth.  _ Ow! _ It was fucking  _ sharp! _ You yank back and hiss, touching your tongue lightly. He growls at you, forcing your head back and your mouth open.

“I don’t tolerate  _ lip,” _ he says, curling a hand around it and pushing it back into your mouth to silence the cocky retort you’re cooking up. You glare up at him, eyes squeezed against the disgusting feeling of spike cramming into your mouth. The prongs scrape the back of your throat and you nearly gag. It keeps going, cranking your jaw as far open as it would go and  _ then _ some.

Primus, this  _ hurt, _ but he didn’t stop. Of course not. He gets to the base and holds your head there a moment, vents pinching in some facade of control. You manage to swallow a couple times, forcing down the clench of your insides. He drops his head back and  _ groans,  _ swinging his hips in a broad circle.

For once, you’re glad you aren’t like the squishies that rely on their mouths to breathe.

He drags it back slowly, the barbs staying flush to the shaft and coming out just as smoothly as they went in. You manage to keep it cool until the forks slide off your tongue, and then you twist away to cough harshly, vents clamping closed in discomfort. Air whistles through a couple; the flaps must be a bit dented from when you got roughed up.

“I’m not done,” he says. Reaches down, pulls your chin back up;  _ pointedly _ ignores when you try to bite him, and angles you to take it again.

“I’ll bite it off,” you threaten, and he laughs at you, low and  _ dangerous. _

“Please.  _ Spare _ me your melodrama.” Then he’s shoving back in, and you can’t talk around the mass forcing your mouth open again. This time he doesn’t put it to the hilt; you’re thanking every deity that’ll listen. An impatient “well?” pulls you out of your thoughts, and he’s bent, staring down at you expectantly.

“Mm?”

“Don’t give me that.” He points down at you with his free hand. “Suck.” You roll your eyes—which serves to irritate him more—and swallow around it again. He won’t be satisfied by that, though, and pushes his hips forward slightly, threatening to shove himself deeper. You gasp and squirm, trying to will your mouth to cooperate. “Perhaps you need to be taught how to suck spike, too?” he hisses, derisive and cranky.

At least he pulls out, leaving a much smaller length in your mouth. You slowly wrap your lips around it, looking up at him and squinting around the soreness in your jaw and throat. He grunts, shifting his hand to curl under your chin and hold you in place. Then he shifts, inching closer before sliding back. You do manage to suck this time, earning a low engine-noise that makes your plating stand on end.

Slowly, he works himself deeper, allowing you time to acclimate to each increase in girth and weight before continuing. It takes some serious focus, and you close your eyes, dedicating everything to keep this fucker happy. It seems to work, because when you run your tongue along one of the barbs, he hisses and shoves deep all of a sudden, nearly choking you.

You’re scrabbling at his hips, but he shifts, pinning your arms to the walls with his knees and trapping you. Now he’s in completely again, and you swallow desperately to keep yourself from losing it. He seems to like it and braces one thorny shoulder to the wall, grumbling and starting to roll his hips in greater motions that drag it out and push it far.

“That’s it, good bot. Keep swallowing, stay calm,” he mutters, trying to stay in control. If he popped the barbs, his new chewtoy would be a  _ wreck,  _ and that simply wouldn’t do. Not at all.

You’re trying so hard to relax for him, to allow this, but every instinct in you is kicking and screaming. You snap your vents shut again, forcing the air to come slow and steady. You keep your eyes closed and clench your fists, steadying yourself and adjusting your doorwings. You’ve got this.

Until he groans, rattly and deep, and crams himself in. That’s when your control falls apart and when his does, too. He yanks out suddenly, and you cough again, knuckling your mouth and wiping your eyes. He’s got a hand wrapped around his spike now, the barbs flexing and flaring out.

“No more,” you manage to croak. He doesn’t respond, just pulls back from the wall and grabs your head in his coarse palm, tilting you back again. “Aaah! N-no—“

“Stop talking,” he snaps, finally managing to smooth the barbs back down and stroking himself hilt-to-tip and back  _ quick. _ You whine but do stop talking, and he sets the very tip on your tongue. Enough that you taste the growing trickle of transfluid gathering there. “Close your mouth. If you bite me, I will rip something important out.”

You do so, but not without making a face. He doesn’t care, for once.

Inwardly, you note how his accent starts coming out when he’s close like this, voice sweeping low and husky around the glyphs. It was…  _ hot,  _ frankly, and you think back to how attractive it’d been to be pinned underneath him. Hm.

Your introspection’s interrupted when he nudges against your tongue, vents thrown wide as he heaved air, getting terribly close but only riding the edge. No harm in helping him along, right? Might reduce the punishment for being so snippy. So you relax into his gigantic hand, letting it angle you how he wants, and lightly suck at what’s in your mouth. He inhales a mighty volume, and then you realize why he muted himself the last time.

He doesn’t yell or moan or cry out for Primus like you’ve heard before; he  _ roars,  _ engines throttling up and mixing with his voice in a deafening scream. You cringe at the volume of it, but manage to keep sucking as he spills jet after jet of transfluid into your waiting mouth. It tapers off as he comes down, sinking against the wall. You just keep sucking until he’s hissing, pulling out and letting go of you.

“Swallow,” he rasps, more than a little hoarse from that. You make a face at him. “Did I  _ stutter?” _ Point made, you think, and wince bodily as you swallow it slowly. It’s not as sweet as his valve fluid and your throat burns like napalm. His limbs are shaking, though, just enough to make the joints tick. He moves down to your level, grabbing your jaw. “Open.”

“What for?” He frowns, and grabs your head too, tugging your mouth open despite your struggle. He peers around.

“Lift your tongue up.” No point in fighting  _ now, _ when he had a hold of you like this. You lift it up. “Mm, good. Swallowed everything.” He releases you, satisfied by that, and straightens to his full height. The intimidation of it is… only  _ slightly _ reduced by the fact his junk’s still hanging out. Less than you would’ve liked. He turns to your adjoined bathroom, obviously to clean himself up, and you slump to the wall.

“Is this just going to be a thing?” you ask the dark of the room. “You using me as…” You clear your throat, make a face. “Like this?”

“Yes,” comes the reply after you hear the squeak of a cloth on wet metal. He steps back out, tucking away everything and sorting his armor back out. He only looks at you with one crimson eye, and you frown. What, you sucked his spike and now you weren’t even worth his attention?

“What if I refuse?”

“Public execution. There is no point in keeping some  _ pitiful _ excuse for an Autobot. Your pretty face is what saved you.”

“Hey-!”

“If I had found someone who was  _ less _ terrible at pleasing me, you’d be offline,” he cuts off, eye narrowing. You straighten slowly, knees a little wobbly.

“Then do it. If I’m  _ so bad  _ at this—“

“You have your uses, still,” he growls, and approaches you. You stare defiantly up at him. Height difference notwithstanding.

“Oh yeah? What about that whole thing about not taking lip?” He chuckles, settling a hand on your shoulder and leaning down. You tell yourself that you  _ aren’t _ afraid of this fucker, but the curve of his grin and low smoldering glow of his eyes sets off everything in you.

“I don’t. Especially not from cute little things like you.” He leans closer, and for a crazy second you’re  _ sure _ he’s going to bite you or something, maybe lean into your ear while he rips your chassis open with his bare hands, or impales you to the wall—but no.

None of that happens.

Instead, scarred lips, sharp and ragged and gouged in grooves, brush yours. You’re pretty sure they scraped off paint, but then he kisses you. Slow at first, only taking your lower lip. Then it’s deeper, and he’s pinning you to the wall, other hand curling under your chin to tilt it up. You grasp at him feebly, vents stuttering unevenly at the feeling. He was taking your breath away! Bigger than the question of  _ how, _ was  _ why? _

You keen softly at a tongue running across your mouth, and open up for him. Resisting seemed like a bad move. He slips it in, slick and too-hot and bitterer than your own mouth. Like low-quality energon. He toys with you a moment longer, sweeping it around and making your vision go fuzzy before pulling back, licking his lips and watching you scramble to collect yourself.

“Now. Have you learned your lesson?” You’re still struggling to cycle air, so you just nod numbly. He hums, backing off and turning to leave. You stare at his back, dumbfounded and running fingertips across your lips to confirm that  _ really did _ just happen.

  
You can think of maybe  _ one _ other living mech that can say he’s kissed Megatron.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings n such: not many! it's actually mostly consensual and vanilla. warning for freaky dick i guess? megs is a fucked up ol' bucket. :V

Some Decepticon medic you’ve never heard of and might never meet sends you some medicated energon and a note.

_ Lord Megatron can be rather rough when he takes what he wants. This will soothe your throat. _

_ \- KO _

Well, at least  _ someone _ was trying to make this whole mess a little less horrible. You sip the cube and stare at the door. The room you were ‘given’ is basically bare aside from the bed and bathroom, so there’s really nothing else  _ to _ do. Inevitably, you find your eyes sliding toward the scene of… whatever it was that happened last night. The words still rang in your head.

_ Your pretty face is what saved you. _

You touch your own face, finding a few scuffs. You muse that Megatron isn’t turned off by it—judging by his  _ own _ armor—and that he’s going to keep taking what he wants regardless of  _ your  _ opinions on the matter. You just sip the cube again. It’s nice and cool and eases the still-burning tenderness of your palate.

_ Clunk, clunk. _

The door swings open, and you’re graced by the old warmonger himself.

“Good,” he murmurs to himself, “you got it.” He steps in properly, pushing the heavy door shut and looking around a little. You see his eyes skip and stop, backtracking to the scraped paint on the wall where he shoved you to it last night. You just blink and keep sipping, choosing not to try anything today.

Frankly, he looks  _ awkward. _ Shifts his weight between his feet, fidgets with his hand, looks around again.

“Well?” You say, and it sounds better than the meager croak you’d given to the Vehicon who made the delivery.

“You’re eating,” he says, keeping his gaze away.

“I can be done,” you say, making to set it aside. He holds a hand up, freezing you in place.

“Finish it,” he says, all authority again. You look at it; less than halfway. It’s not a feat to turn it bottom-up and down the rest. He approaches, then, taking it far more gently than you expected him capable of. He puts it aside and sits at the edge of the bed, thinking.

“You’re not going to-?”

“No. Not right now.” He looks over, arching a brow. “Unless you  _ want _ to?”

“No, no thanks.” You shake your head quickly. Had enough of him for a lifetime. He grunts, settling back into staring at the wall blankly. You get up and head to the bathroom, only sparing him a glance. His eyes have wandered off in different directions; it looks  _ ridiculous _ and completely removes any semblance of intimidation he might have had. You clean yourself up a little and frown at your reflection, then head back, leaning on the doorframe between the areas.

He blinks—eyes snapping back to where they ought to be—and looks up at you. At your face, not your chassis, to your surprise.

“You look worse than I’d thought,” he rumbles.

“Kinda happens when big angry warlords abuse you.” You shrug, pretending it’s not as pointed as it is. His mouth twitches, warring between a scowl and smirk. You grin triumphantly, and he smothers a chuckle in his fist.

“Come here,” he says, tone gentle but still commanding. You push off the doorframe and come closer, taking your sweet time.  _ Now _ he lets his eyes slide down, tracing over every bit of your—admittedly average—figure. He seems to approve regardless and lifts a hand, grabbing you by the hip and tugging you  _ much _ closer. 

Even seated on the low bed, he’s tall as you, and you gasp and plant hands on his chest to steady yourself.

“Warn a bot,” you mutter. He grins crookedly and wraps his arms around you, fingers seeking out the joint of a doorwing. Claws slip in, precise and practiced. You manage a pathetic-sounding hiccup of surprise, and he hums.

“Ah. Good to see they’ve not changed a thing.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“I’ve been with plenty of your chassis-type,” he replies, half-answering the question. Then a claw brushes some sensors and you jolt upright, shoulders jerking. It doesn’t serve to dislodge him, and he strokes the cluster again.

“Oh-ah—“

“Good, or bad?” he asks, stroking it again. You squirm in his grasp and try to force your vents to be more even.

“I—g-good?”

“That doesn’t sound like an answer,” he murmurs, nosing into your neck and placing ticklish, fluttering kisses against the cabling.

“Good,” you try again. He just plants more kisses, angling another talon to hit that same spot, making you buck. Yes, this was definitely good; your fans were ticking up, and you could feel the warmth in your core. Another lazy brush, and your panels snap open.

He purrs into your neck, a grin sliding teeth against your throat.  _ Oh, Primus, _ you think, because this is exactly what he wants. He adjusts his hand, digging clawtips into that spot and rubbing it properly a few times, dragging you into a shaky arch. Your HUD fritzes out in a fit of static when he  _ drags _ his talons against the cluster, and you can feel the wet squeeze of your valve’s interest.

“Some picture of innocence you are,” he growls into your collar, and his other hand shifts to cup and squeeze your aft before slipping thick fingers between your thighs. The hand curled at the base of your doorwing’s stroking more insistently now, tracing agonizing circles around that little bundle of sensors and making you choke on your own tongue.

The curved pads of his fingers press further between your legs, brushing the back of your valve almost curiously. That’s all it takes and then he’s got them up to the first knuckle in you, the heavy wedges spreading you roughly. He never stops rubbing that stupid spot in your shoulder, circling it sometimes just to tease.

“A-are you going to fuck me or not?” you ask, turning your head and yelping when it earns you a nip.

“I’m considering it.” He prods that cluster one last time before pulling his hand away. Your doorwings flick reflexively, and then his now-free hand is hooking behind your knee, pulling your leg up around his waist.

“You certainly seem inclined,” you mumble, scooting closer onto his lap. He rumbles in amusement and pulls his claws out, examining them over your shoulder. He wipes his hand on the sheets uncaringly and grabs your other leg, pulling it up too. He stands, holding you under your thighs, and pushes you to the nearest wall. You relax, allowing him free roam. He seems to like your thighs, petting and squeezing them; he certainly likes your neck too, and your doorwings.

Guess it was more than your “pretty face” that saved you.

“I shouldn’t,” he says, pausing in his ministrations.

“Why not?”

“My spike. Those thorns mean business,” he reminds. “I’m not ready to tear you open just yet.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” you grump, folding your arms and sulking. He watches you pout a moment, before seeming to get an idea.

“I’ll be right back.” He sets you gently on your feet, and leaves the room.

“Wow, rude,” you mutter, once he’s good and far out of earshot. Asshole left you here, leaking down your own thighs;  _ well,  _ he’d be in for a surprise when you were already done before he got back. You slip a hand down, curling fingers into your valve and stroking. Not a good angle, so you kneel and turn to the wall to brace yourself.

“I’m back,” he says, stepping in quickly but freezing after he closes the door. “Would you look at that?” Suddenly he’s  _ there,  _ kneeling behind you and pressing close. Something thick rests between your thighs.

“Thought you said you couldn’t spike me?”

“I can with this on.” You lift a leg to look down at it; it’s some kind of thick sleeve, softening all his nasty pointy bits and keeping the barbs trapped flush to the shaft.

“I’d almost say thank you.” He chuckles at that and lifts you up easily, turning you to face him again and sandwiching you between his chest and the wall.

“Now, where was I? Ah, yes; I believe I was feeling you up, fantasizing about all the things I’m going to do to you.” He leans closer, sliding his too-large hands up your thighs and making you squirm. His stupid, big hips are hard to wrap your legs around, so you wiggle until you get them around the narrowest part of his waist.

“I hope one of those things is sitting on my face again,” you mumble under your breath. He freezes, eyes flashing.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Speak up,” he orders.

“...I said I’d like you to sit on my face again.” A slow, lecherous smile crawls up his lips.

“Of course I can. But first…” He wraps his hands clear ‘round your waist, angling your hips to nudge lightly at you. “I think I’ve prepped you enough. Ready?”

“Yes.” You nod once, and suddenly he slides in, bottoming out. He’s got this horrible twisted face going now, as you both acclimate to the sudden pressure, and it’s all you can do to breathe right. He’s  _ massive;  _ it feels like he’s taking up your whole valve easily and forcing your legs even further apart.

He drops his head to the wall with a resounding  _ thunk _ and shifts his weight. You bite your knuckle, vents whistling again.

“Remind me to have those repaired,” he mumbles, rocking his hips very slightly. Like he was testing the feeling. You manage to nod, a low whine building in your throat. He moves one hand to the wall, looking quite like he was struggling to move just as much as you were.

“Hard,” you breathe. “I want it hard.”

“I will hardly do such a thing,” he grumbles, adjusting his grip on your waist to give him better leverage. Now he’s thrusting shallowly, pulling a bit out and giving it right back. You grasp up at his shoulders, managing to hook hands around the mild bevelling and pull yourself up.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to hear Knockout complaining about having broken your pelvis.” He presses closer, surrounding you in his tangy scent and warmth.

“That seems like it would be the least of his worries around here,” you grunt out. This new angle means you’re bouncing a bit on his spike and oh  _ Primus _ below, it feels good.

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” He chuckles in that sweet, low way, and you squeeze his armor to try and keep the shakes away. He leans back, straightening most of the way and wrapping hands around your thighs again. You know exactly what’s coming but all the psyching-up in the world doesn’t make you ready for when he  _ lifts _ you up off his spike, letting that terrible pronged tip linger.

“I-is it bad that I’m thankful for the padding?” you ask. The end is more of a shout, because that’s when he drags you down again.

“That’s why I was so insistent on it,” he hums, and lifts you again, stroking thumbs against your quivering thighs. You slump against him, hands too shaky to keep their grip. This was  _ so _ fucking  _ good _ . Too good.

You realize, belatedly, that you might be enjoying this—being Megatron’s plaything—a little too much. Frankly, with his spike smearing around the rim of your valve and plunging deep again, you find you don’t care.

He starts to pick up speed, grunting now every time he crams himself in. You’re falling apart, armor rattling as you cling to him for dear life and try not to cum so soon. Unfortunately for you, he’s perfectly aware of it. He  _ leeaans _ down to your ear, torso curled and hitting new angles inside you.

“So close already?” He clucks at you. “Mm, seems I’ll have to drag you through multiple, won’t I?” He pauses and smiles wickedly. “Yes, I think I like the thought of that. You crying my name as you cum again and again around my spike.” All you can get out of your vocoder is a sob of  _ yes _ and that’s when he shoves you to the wall and properly hilts into you.

You feel quite like this might be the best fuck you’ve ever had, and writhe on his spike while hissing—maybe shouting—expletives. You don’t know for sure. You  _ do _ know, however, that he never entirely stops thrusting that big damned spike into you, milking your valve for everything it’s worth.

Things become blurry for a bit as he continues, but you can tell exactly when he starts chasing his finish, because he throws all restraint out the window. You thought it was rough before? You didn’t know the  _ meaning _ of the word. Now he’s pistoning his hips and huffing like a freight train, fucking you into the wall. And almost  _ through _ it.

He’s railing you the way only a gladiator can, and you’re screaming yourself raw at the sensation of it all. It’s so much, so  _ hot,  _ and you fumble downward to stroke furiously at your node. He snarls and snatches your hands up, pinning them to the wall above your head in one enormous hand.

“No,” he snaps, and wraps his free hand around a knee to drag you back into his violent thrusts. You’re going to be limping hard after this, but honestly you look  _ forward  _ to it.

He shoves every aching inch of his spike into you, muting himself and letting the high, shrieking roar of his turbines do the talking. You don’t feel any fluid; the covering must be capturing or rerouting it. Smart, actually, but you don’t really think that past your valve gripping onto him like a vice one last time.

“Done?” you whisper, too hoarse to do much else. He nods numbly, eyes still screwed shut as he slowly lets out a long gust of steam. His throat buzzes and clicks, and he speaks softly.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No. That was… honestly, the most enjoyable spiking I’ve ever undergone. Much better than the previous two times.”

“That’s not a very large sample size,” he notes, and opens his eyes. His pupils are enlarged, hazy with afterglow. You smile crookedly at him. He sits down with you, knees wobbling slightly as he releases you from his iron grip. You stretch a bit, flick your doorwings, squirm off his spike, and lean in to steal a peck against the arch of his cheek.

“Maybe not. But it’s enough for me to make up my mind on the matter.” He chuckles and hooks the tip of a claw under your chin, tugging you close for a proper kiss. It’s warm and remarkably soft and so sweet that you almost forget  _ who _ exactly you’re kissing.

Until Knockout phones.

“ _ Milord, I’m getting noise complaints of you ‘fucking someone through a wall’. You aren’t hurting that Autobot again, are you?” _

“On the contrary. They seemed to enjoy it.” He smirks at you, and your spark skips a pulse. That was a  _ deadly _ look if you’d ever seen one.

“ _ For the  _ third _ time!” _ he shouts, and Megatron clicks the comm off.

“I suppose you have an appointment with the good Doctor, now,” he mused, rolling his eyes.

“Ready to go,” you report; not like you have to get ready. “One problem, though.”

“Mm?”

“You’re going to have to carry me.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: exhibitionism (?), psychological fuckery, nearly getting crushed by megatron (again)

Knockout, as it turns out, was that prissy red sports car you’d seen in passing when you were first captured.

He’s even  _ more  _ obnoxious than you thought, which is no small feat.

But, the scuffs and scratches were gone, your vent-flaps smoothed out, your hip armor un-dented and repainted. You looked good again, and felt pretty alright too. Still limping, but that would  _ last _ with the way Megatron had treated you.

You blow off Knockout’s irritated warnings, walking out of the Nemesis medbay with the pair of Vehicon escorts assigned to you. Apparently, you were heading to the bridge, now. Something important.

“Did he say anything specific?” you ask, earning a noncommittal shrug. That answered that, and completely removed your urge to try and hold a conversation with these drones.

The bridge doors hiss and slide open, revealing the typical complement of crew. Starscream stood to one side of a big, dark shape, wings doing some kind of crazy gestures. Soundwave was at his station in the recessed area at the front windows. The shape, whatever it is, isn’t Megatron.

For a second you worry; until you’re taken around. It’s a seat. A throne, more accurately. Starscream looks to you and taps his foot, looking impatient and afraid all in one.

Megatron is the  _ image _ of power, lounging back and resting his jaw to one massive fist; he looks bored with his lieutenant’s prattling, and his free hand’s drumming fingers at the armrest. It’s hard to tell if it’s just lighting or not, but he’s looking  _ quite _ waxed up. Even the purple paint on his heatsinks, around his collar, in his arms looks clearer, freshened-up. He looks beautifully regal.

You step up, nudged in the back by Vehicon claws. He looks to you with just his eyes, squinting a little in what might be happiness. He lifts his head, dismissing the drones with a flick of talons, then promptly settles back down.

“Ah, there you are,” he purrs, eyes tracing over you hungrily. It’s hard not to flush a healthy blue and dip your doorwings in surprise; ogling you in private was one thing, but in the midst of the bustling bridge? Starscream looks ill all of a sudden and backs off. You almost join him, but the warlord lifts his hand, lazily crooking a claw at you. “Come here.”

You shuffle closer, armor flattened close. You can’t help but be wary. This is unprecedented. You feel so  _ small _ compared to him—even moreso when he sits forward, looking down at you like some delightful new snack. His eyes slide down your frame, and you swear to Primus he’s drooling.

“D-did Knockout do a good job?” you try to jibe, but this low, subvocal  _ rumble _ emanates from him. Oh,  _ no. _ He’s  _ purring. _ He’s enjoying this so much.

“He made you perfect again,” he mutters, reaching forward to hook you by the hip and drag you in. “Perfect… and ever-so-delicious.” You close your eyes and let him come close, hand curling in the small of your back as he left sucking, toothy kisses against your collar and neck. He does pull away, humming as he lifts you easily into his lap, tucking you close to himself.

“Is this  _ really _ necessary, Master?” Starscream hisses, eyes never fully meeting his. His wings are pulled low, hands wringing at each other quick. Soundwave even looks over, seeming unimpressed when he returns his focus to the console.

“Yes. Get over it.” He strokes one of your doorwings, tracing the edge and settling back into his more-or-less original posture. His expression’s still salacious as ever, and you can feel the searing prickle of his gaze tracing around your hips and thighs. Probably thinking about scraping the fresh coat of paint off with those wicked talons as he ruins you again.

Your HUD pings: a notification from your valve’s self-lubrication system. Wonderful.

Megatron must  _ smell  _ it or something, because now his eyes are locked on your panel, lips curling just enough to show a jagged glimmer of teeth. He creeps a hand from your knee upward, fingers slithering closer and closer. You have half a mind to pinch your legs together; an extremely  _ excited _ engine rev tells you that you unconsciously acted on that.

“Oh, I  _ like _ this side of you,” he growls, lifting you upright so his mouth is flat to your ear. “I will have what I want.” You can’t prevent the full-body shudder that causes, or stop the squeak that escapes you. He grins, then gestures down. “Step down. I have a better idea.” You slide off his lap, still blushing furiously, and watch him sashay over to an unoccupied, powered-down console. Right in view of Starscream, who has stubbornly turned away from the throne. Megatron drapes himself over it, eyes dim and fixated on you.

Again, he curls a talon, beckoning you closer. You approach, more stop-and-go than before, and partially sideways. He looks briefly amused by it, but it’s quickly overridden by that painfully arousing, lusty  _ stare. _

“Um?” you try. He adjusts himself, sliding one knee away from the other. You gawk. His crimson valve’s right on display; you realize he didn’t have his armor closed this  _ entire time. _

“I do recall you asking for access to this again,” he says casually, like you’re not on a bridge full of soldiers. He even reaches down, spreading his shroud and showing the slick folds behind. It takes all your will not to bolt forward and bury your face into such a delicious sight. Or your spike, for that matter. The prospect of fucking Lord Megatron himself against a console sounds appetizing. There’s just this little nugget of worry that your  _ considerably _ smaller frame and spike won’t be enough to properly satisfy him.

You shake your head to clear your thoughts, and take another step closer. He’s looking down at you with a sense of restraint about his posture; like he wanted to kick you down and sit on you again. You wouldn’t have opposed, really.

You slowly approach and slide your hand against the inside of one of his thighs, light as a feather. You try really hard not to think about how close his valve is to being level with your face when he stands, and instantly fail. The thought of him standing there while you sucked his node, or his shroud, or licked at him…

Thankfully, he seems just as keen on such a thing, and suddenly twists off the console, pinning your head against it with his hips. You can  _ just _ peek past his armor and see his eyes still on you, crinkled at the corners with a grin.

“I know what you were thinking,” he murmurs, rolling his hips lazily. You close your eyes, licking at him with abandon. Who cared what he was going on about when you had  _ this _ on your mouth? “And I like it.”

Wait. What?

“Hmm?” you hum, cracking an eye to peer up at him.

“You paused, touched your belly. You were considering spiking me. I like that.” Oh, shit. That. You nod a little, hesitant, and he pulls away, leaving you to lick at air and whine.

“Come back,” you complain, curling hands around his hips. He chuckles mildly, smoothing a hand across your helm before bending to lift you up onto the console, turning around. You sit up in confusion, only to have a  _ very _ large warlord grind down on your lap.  _ Ping, _ goes your spike housing, telling you that you've just sprung the biggest boner of your life.

“Still want me to go back?” he asks, looking over his shoulder to you. You shake your head and quickly snap your panels open. He hums and slides back, perching himself just so; he’s got one hand braced back on the console for leverage, and reaches down with the other to grab your twitching spike and angle it. “I’ll try to hold back,” he teased, and you tilted your head in confusion.

Until he sunk onto you, and it felt like you were on the edge of having your spike crushed by the most powerful valve you’ve ever experienced.

It’s all you can do to stay upright, curling your arms around him and digging your fingers into the vent-slats on the lower edge of his chestpiece. You’re smothering noises in his back as he rides you, slow and steady. It feels like spiking a rippling, muscular vice and you swear to every deity listening that you’ll never go back. You can’t because no other valve is  _ this _ good.

You know you’re shaking so bad your armor rattles against his, but  _ Primus below  _ he’s going  _ slow, _ rolling his hips in sluggish circles and driving you absolutely wild. You can’t even motivate your hips into moving against him, and you feel yourself scrabble a bit at his chest, losing grip. He grabs your wrists gently in his free hand, holding you up and letting a soothing wash of warm air brush over you from his dorsal vents.

You know full well that everyone on the bridge knows you’re spiking Megatron by now, either by merit of seeing your little arms and legs poke out from behind him, or the choked sobs that you can’t help making. He lets loose a low, rumbling moan of his own, sitting on you properly and letting you feel that power on every inch of your meager spike.

You know that your hips are going to need another round of help from Knockout, but you can’t find it in yourself to particularly care. Not when Megatron grinds down again, shroud wetly kissing at the base of your spike. You’re hanging on the edge after that, but he slides up and off until only your tip remains inside him.

“I’ve had enough of this,” comes a shrill voice, and you realize it’s Starscream. His heels click off toward the bridge door, and then your spike is swallowed again. Megatron  _ groans, _ a deep noise that reverberates through you completely. You can tell precisely how much of it is turbine noise, and muffle your own cries against his warm back. “Stop!” Starscream shrieks, and you feel rather than hear the chuckle in Megatron’s chest.

“I-I’m gunna—“ you stammer out.

“Good. Do it,” he hisses in reply.

You jerk into him, hips snapping up with a hollow  _ clunk. _ He growls and sits his aft back down, pinning you to the console and tearing a scream out of you as you finally cum into that delicious, tight valve. It hits like a train and rolls through you for so long that you’re  _ positive _ that you’ll be unconscious by the end of this.

It finally finishes, and past the warm, content haze, you feel dread crawling up the back of your neck.

_ Megatron didn’t finish. _

He lifts off you, bringing your hips along until gravity drags you back. He hums, running claws through the slowly leaking mess and bringing it to his face for examination.

“Hey, wait—“ you try, lifting a shaking hand. He casts a brief glance to you and snaps his panel shut, then goes to clean his hand off. That dread morphs into terror, and you force yourself up, shoving everything away and closing your armor so you can scramble after him. “Wait, wait—! Aren't you supposed to be taking what you want?” He looks down at you with those  _ intense _ eyes and you feel yourself retreat a bit, doorwings dipping.

“I got what I wanted,” he says simply.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: unprotected fuckin', megatron being a clawy, prickly bitch, multiple spikes, emotional and sexual trauma, self-abuse i guess? 
> 
> there's a lot going on in this one, to put it concisely >_>

Three weeks.

Three  _ weeks,  _ it’s been three damned Earth-weeks since that moment on the bridge, and you’ve only gotten wound tighter and tighter since then.

Knockout warned you offhand about system stress, during your last visit. He’s getting less abrasive toward you, and even lets the occasional snide comment about Megatron slip around you. You aren’t sure what to make of them, for the most part. But, he did seem to want to tell you something, right after that mentioned system stress; he’d derailed into complaints about his boss and never actually said it, but you can cobble together some pieces.

Megatron’s got some stressor sitting on him, and it’s driving him to this…  _ confusing _ behavior. Confusing, and alarming. Every time he gets you to cum and leaves, it feels like Breakdown’s taking a ratchet and tightening your armor more and more. You’ve been avoiding him—as much as that means, when it comes to the Warlord of the Decepticons. As much as that means when you’re said warlord’s  _ prisoner. _

Doesn’t really feel like you’re a prisoner, anymore. You’ve got your own room, you get fed regularly, fixed up by Knockout whenever you need it, and your escort was bumped down from two to one. You even made friends with some of the Vehicons that get lumped into walking you around the ship.

All benefits of making Megatron cum his brains out whenever he likes—but therein lies the problem: you  _ haven’t  _ in that three weeks.

You keep thinking back to how you expected execution back on your first day, and honestly… you’re expecting it again.

He’s not talked to you; your  _ visits _ have tapered off in the last couple weeks, sharply. Like he was avoiding you just as much as you were avoiding him. There’s irony in that, somewhere, but you don’t care to find it. You’re just nervous; the kind that's got you glancing over your shoulders and peering in shadows for Makeshift or Soundwave or Starscream. Any of his mecha could put your spark out easily.

So when Megatron comes to your room, jaw set, you start mentally writing up your will.

He looks  _ terse,  _ eyes never really settling on you, armor shifting constantly; like he was  _ forced _ to come. Knockout’s the first candidate, but Starscream or Soundwave could’ve.

“This about the stress?” you ask, plaintively. He just grunts. “I’ll help if you let me.” He hasn’t been, controlling himself and pulling away the moment you’re finished. This time,  _ this  _ time, you’re not going to open your armor; he could easily tear it off you with that Pit-strength he’s got, but is unlikely to.

“Knockout sent me,” he mutters. Figures. “Told me to stop playing with you like I am.” You lift a shoulder in a shrug. He doesn’t look at you, so you scoot off the bed to try and crowd into his vision.

“You realize that I can’t exactly run off, right? If you wanted to do something to me… here I am.” You gesture toward yourself, and he rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. You feel the room heat up a few degrees around him, and notice the suppressed hiss of his cooling systems. He was running  _ hot.  _ Extremely so.  _ Dangerously _ so. “How have you not fried yourself?” You blurt out.

“Very carefully,” he replies, sarcastic. You ghost a hand across one of his vents, jerking it away sharply and shaking it out.

“Damn,” you mumble. “You realize this is gunna make things hard if you’re too hot for me to touch, right?”

“That’s not what I’m here for,” he grumbles, eyes sliding closed. Makes it hard to believe him.

“Oh? Then what  _ are  _ you here for? Since you don’t seem inclined to let me figure it out myself.”

“I’m here because—”

“Because Knockout sent you. Yeah.” You squint at him, circle around to his front. He hisses out a long gust of air, dorsal vents thrown open to expel just a tiny bit of heat. “Open,” you urge, and prod another vent. He opens them a fraction, keeping his eyes closed. “And look at me, would you?”

“I don’t recommend that,” he says, but opens his eyes and looks down at you anyway. You look up at him, irritation squishing your rather unfortunate babyface; it fades the second you see the look in his eyes. You’ve seen some hungry stares in your time—paramount of which are probably from Megatron himself. But the look he’s giving you  _ now _ blows all the others out of the water.

It’s an unspoken  _ I’m going to ravage you, _ tracing across your frame down-up and only serving to make him run hotter. It’s lust that’s been held back three weeks, need pushed down again and again and only now allowed to rise to the surface.

It’s clearer what’s happening now, but you still want answers.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, intentionally cocking a hip and setting a fist on it. He stares down at the motion, unblinking, and you feel your own core warming.

“It’s nothing but a case of unmanaged old code,” he replies, carefully even. Sounds like bullshit, but you  _ hmm _ in concession and nod a little anyway. Then you fold your arms, and smirk when he blows out a mighty rush of steam.

“Old code, hmm? I didn’t know you were that much of a rustbucket,” you poke. “I think I know what you mean, though; I was given a crash course in field medicine. This, unfortunately, was part of it.” You let your chin drop, eyes trailing down his front and resting on the jagged curves of his waist armor.

“Yes. Because the effects resemble—”

“Heatstroke,” you interrupt, and smile slyly up at the glare he gives you. The pieces were falling into place, now. “So. You held off… why?”

“Control. I won’t let some scrap of useless coding dictate my actions,” he sneers, fangs flashing. You stifle an amused snort. Such a prideful stubborn-aft. Still, he was here now, and that meant you could help. No point in beating around the bush about it, right?

“Will you open up for me, then? So I can help you?”

“I don’t need help,” he retorts, leaning down. You stay put, defiant, and tilt your head.

“Pretty sure if Knockout sent you, you need help. Open up, please.” He growls, but straightens and shifts armor out of the way. Oh, this didn’t look good; his spike was  _ straining,  _ dribbling transfluid and looking like he was humming right on the edge. “How long has—“

“Since I walked in,” he interrupts. You blink at him. He frowns at you. “Yes, you are the object of my body’s infatuation. Surprise, surprise.” You sigh at him, examining it more. It looked bad enough that you could probably finish him with one touch. 

You’re thinking back to those lessons from—who was it? Some medic-build from Polyhex. Heat cycles were only present in  _ very _ old frames; Megatron was one of the last remainders after all that happened during the war. He’s a groundtype-turned-flier; you do some quick backbrain math and come up with—

“A week. This should only last a week; two, tops. And you’ve dragged it out for  _ three.” _ Now it’s your turn to glower up at him. He rumbles in warning, and you hold your hand around his spike, never touching—just threatening. He stays put. “Control is one thing, but it’s no wonder Knockout sent you.”

“And yet here we are, dragging it out more—“ he starts, and you close your hand finally, shutting him right up. His mouth still hangs open, his pupils shrunk down to little white pinpricks, and you hear another gust of air leave his frame.

“You were saying?” You tease, but he doesn’t respond. Actually, his spike is thrumming in your hand like he’s about to cum, and you realize that you’ve got nothing to clean it up with. Treated as well as you are, yet nobody bothers to restock your room too often.

So you improvise and wrap your mouth around the tip.

That’s all it takes, and his head drops back, a low noise crawling out of him as his knees give out; you almost catch him but buckle under his weight, getting smushed to the floor with his spike-tip miraculously staying put. You don’t suck, figuring that might hurt—just let him finish relieving the pressure. It lasts a good while, but he’s sitting up and rearranging himself before it’s completely done. 

You awkwardly swallow, wincing at the size of the wad, and exhale heavily. Then you lift your head, thumbing away any traces left on your lip.

“I need to go,” he mutters, head still lolled back like he’s trying to collect himself.

“Why? We just got started.”

“No, I need to go before it gets  _ worse,” _ he replies. He’s not making any move to get up, though. You just shake your head and park yourself between his legs, peering down at it. You can hear that voice again, melodic and friendly and guiding you through an examination.

“Check the velamen,” you mumble under your breath. Firm, hot; he’d need more relief from that. “Then the spike base.” A squeeze has him jerking into a curl. The firmness there had yet to abate. “Node…” Thrumming in time with his spike. When you stroke your thumb across it, a little  _ ahh! _ escapes him. “...and valve.” You slip your thumb downward, finding a generous helping of lubricant.

“Field medicine,” he choked, “more like  _ torture. _ What are you doing to me?”

“Seeing how bad things are,” you reply, rubbing your thumb and forefingers together. His lubricant was thick yet smooth. Ideal. You selfishly stick those fingers into your mouth to suck the sweet fluid off. “So, Lord Megatron; what’s your preference today?” He squeezes his eyes shut, clearly struggling to think past the rising arousal that’s taking over again.

“Hands,” he eventually grits out. You just nod, wrapping a hand around him again. The other slips down, curling fingers in and brushing the heel of your palm to his node. He rumbles, relaxing and angling his hips to be more comfortable as you work him slowly.

It still doesn’t take much to finish him; it’s only a moment or two longer before your hand is soaked. His spike’s still uncomfortably stiff, though, and you wrack your brain trying to remember why.

It’s interrupted by him shifting, pulling himself free of you. You’re on your back rather suddenly, the warlord perched over you on his hands and knees.

“Something wrong?”

“Your hands are good. Very good. But I want  _ you.” _ You try to suppress the full-body shiver that gave you, and try to sit up. He’s not having  _ that _ and shoulders you back down, grumbling something nonsensical.

“Hey, hey, be  _ careful—“ _ you try to warn, feeling that dangerous spike creeping up between your thighs. He grabs your hand off his shoulder, pinning it to the floor easily and adjusting himself. It brushes against your plate, smooth; the barbs aren’t out yet. Although, it seems he can’t make any guarantees about them  _ staying _ down.

“Open,” he orders, and you squirm to get your other arm free from its spot trapped half-under you.

“Not so fast,” you argue, and he reaches down, hand wrapping around your aft like it’s nothing. Seeing as his thumb rests on your spike panel, fingertips almost to the back of your  _ waist,  _ it probably  _ is _ nothing to him.

“I said open,” he says, eyes narrowing. You glare at him, but his fingers start searching, and you almost worry that he’s looking for a way to force it open. So, you snap the armor back, earning a murmur of approval as he removes his hand. “I will not hurt you,” he promises.

“I agreed to  _ help. _ Not this.”

“You know so much about the cycle, don’t you?” he inquires, almost angrily. He fixes you with one red eye and hisses, “Then surely you know about the fact that I can find no relief from this unless I am within an ‘ _ adequate receptacle.’ _ Your valve. Now let me work you open so this hurts less.”

You don’t comment on his extremely sarcastic use of proper terminology, and flip onto your belly. He lifts your hips, slipping a finger in slowly. You’re psyching yourself up for this, telling yourself that there’s a lot of ways he can find relief without hurting you.

“Wait. Hurts  _ less?” _

“Surely you have seen my spike by now,” he deadpans. “It is not a gentle thing.”

“But you just said—“

“I know what I said!” he snaps, and you quail a little, doorwings flattening to your back. He notices and it’s like a switch is flipped; he adjusts so you’re a bit more comfortable, lightly pressing flush to your back and rumbling some soothing tone. “I’m sorry,” he says, softly. “I shouldn’t let my temper get in the way of this. I don’t want to hurt you, but it is something of an inevitability.”

“Hang on. Isn’t there some kind of numbing gel in here, somewhere?” You remember Knockout mentioning it in passing.

“I believe so, yes. Are you saying to numb myself?”

“No, no. Use a little bit on me. Just enough that this won’t hurt as much.”

“Very well,” he says, pulling his finger out and standing to head to the little bathroom. He comes back, settling behind you again and pressing talons into you. The gel’s cold and a funny sort of slick; different than your natural lubricant. It’s annoying at first, but quickly fades as the sensors there quiet down.

“That should be good,” you report. He hums and sets it aside, gripping you by the arc of a hip.

“I worked you open enough. Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” He grunts the affirmative and nudges in, surprisingly gentle. He really  _ didn’t _ want to hurt you.

You don’t have long to marvel at that fact, because he adjusts and slides to his hilt in one smooth motion. All you manage is a startled little  _ gh! _ because you’ve forgotten the size discrepancy between you. It feels like the forked tip of his spike is prodding at your fuel tank, jabbing at your spark casing; you have to adjust your legs because it makes your hips ache.

You catch a muffled  _ oh Primus _ as he sits there, reveling in the feeling.

“This will be brief,” he mutters, leaning over you to talk in your ear. It makes your armor prickle, frankly; he notices and chuckles warmly. “I have been told my voice is…  _ unique.” _

“That’s a nice way of putting it,” you grunt out, gripping uselessly at the floor. He hums, sitting up onto his knees. This way he’s got complete leverage on you.

He abuses it, too; sliding almost all the way out and slipping back in. You can distantly tell the sharp bits of his spike are doing something that  _ should _ be, by all rights, rather painful. You’re inwardly glad you remembered the gel. Still, he’s venting heat properly now, rolling his hips in languid strokes and dragging you back and forth across the floor. It’s good; you can tell his temperature is dipping out of the red.

“Does this hurt?” He asks.

“Nope. Can’t feel a thing,” you report, giving a thumbs-up.

“Nothing?” He slows, mouth twitching downward. You shrug.

“Nothing.”

“Not even… the pleasure?” He seemed  _ dumbfounded _ by this. You blink at him.

“...Nope, I’m completely numb.”

“Surely there’s a way to make this enjoyable for you too!” he suddenly barks, and you jolt in surprise.

“I’m good,” you promise, “no need for special treatment here. Just trying to help you out.” A low growl tells you he isn’t taking no for an answer, and lifts you up easily. He hugs you close to his chest, lifting your legs and basically folding you in two; he adjusts one arm halfassedly and reaches down to dance claws around your node.

“Can you feel  _ this?” _ he asks into your ear. You bite your lip, trying not to hiss in air as you nod. He purrs and slides a claw right across it, making you jerk involuntarily. He seems to enjoy that, murmuring praise as he lifts you off his spike, dropping you to the hilt again even as he continues to stroke at you. You grasp at his arms, head dropping back. You’d secretly harbored a fantasy or two about sitting down and  _ properly _ riding his spike, but this wasn’t what you had in mind.

Honestly, it’s  _ better _ than what you had in mind.

“Careful,” you mutter, turning your head to look back at him. His eyes are closed, teeth bared.

“What for?” he grits out.

“Don’t want me finishing too soon.”

“Oh, but I do,” he replies, relaxing. “I want you to squeeze me, milk my spike until I’ve nothing to give.” 

_ So eloquent,  _ you muse, rolling your eyes a little. That thought’s cut when he rolls his hips to meet yours, talons hitting a different angle. You jolt, you jerk, you throw your head back and choke on noise.

“So noisy,” he murmurs, sliding his free hand out from under you carefully. Now you’re seated on his spike, lopsided, while he continues stroking at your node. Even gives it a pinch that makes you hiccup.

Then you find enormous claws in your mouth.

They open your jaw slowly—he must’ve learned his lesson from before. You grip at his forearm feebly, hand shaking too much to hold onto the heavy armor. He slips them against your tongue; they’re tangy-sharp and you can feel every scuff and scar along the curve of them. It takes all your will not to play into his hand—pun unintended. Still, his mouth delicately brushes the top of your helm, and he pulls his claws out.

“What was that?”

“A test, to see if you quieted down. It worked.” The tips graze your lip, scooping up the little threads of spit. You can’t help but shudder. Such dangerous things being so  _ gentle… _ it tickled something in you.

You lift your hand to his, cupping the back. His knuckles are blunt and heavily armored, weathered and scored much the same as his claws. You carefully scoop it closer, guiding his fingers back to your mouth. First you lick up the sheen on them. Then you slide your tongue between two of them, testing the feeling, the risk.

“Mm. Warm,” you comment. He says nothing. You decide to tip his hand, leaning forward just a tad to smother wet kisses into his palm, molded and strange as it is. It’s even warmer and here, you realize he could fit his hand around your head.  _ Easily. _ He pulls his hand away from you, reaching down. He moves his other hand aside and palms at you, stroking your node with the spit-slicked curve.

“Since you seem so keen on them,” he explains. You don’t care. You’re grasping at the overlapping armor of his wrist, trying to pull it closer so you can grind on it. There’s a hum above your head, and he teasingly tugs back, playing keep-away and only grazing the bead of your node.

“Stop iiit,” you whine, jerking back and forth. He chuckles lowly, finally pressing it close and dragging the surface across you. That’s all it takes to make you shake yourself into an arch, smothering your shout in a palm as you clench down on the titanic spike still buried deep in you.

There’s a muffled  _ mmph _ above you and your angle’s radicalized; he’s jerked into a tight curl, spike throbbing. All the warning you get is a strangled,  _ “m’gonna,” _ before he jerks back,  _ throwing  _ his hips up against yours in a bruising slam. You yelp and scrabble a bit, shaking and clutching at the fingers that grab your thigh, pulling you down until you  _ swear _ his armor’s merging with yours.

You peek over a shoulder, doorwings quivery and low, and there’s this hazed-out look of pure bliss on his faceplates. There’s even a little drool shining on his lip as he rides the high. He still isn’t  _ done, _ giving a few last little gushes of transfluid before crashing back, letting go of you.

“B-better?”

_ “Mmgh.” _ You take that as a yes and move to slip up and off, freezing when you feel pressure in your valve and something that really ought to be pain—but winds up just being a funny pulling sensation.

“Uh.” You look down. Is that  _ energon _ in the growing pool of fluid between your legs? You decide to conduct another check from here and reach down awkwardly, poking between the closest points of his thighs. His shroud’s still firm and angry-hot. Not better, then. “Megatron?” You ask, leaning back to peer over your shoulder at him. He slowly cracks one red eye, pupil sliding your way lazily. “I’m stuck.”

“Yes. It would appear that way,” he mumbles, uncaring. The eye shuts again.

“Also, your shroud is still stiff.”

“Yes. Care to tell me anything else I already know?”

“Do you really want an answer to that?” You ask, squinting. The sarcasm isn’t lost on him, and he moves to sit up again, draping a massive arm around you.

“There are solutions to one of those problems.”

“I don’t want Knockout anywhere near my valve, thank-you-very-much.”

“The other one,” he snarks, and you feel some modicum of surprise that the Great Lord Megatron can sass you right back.

“And what would that be?” He shifts, moving you a little and lifting one of your legs to slide it out of his way.

“I had some very unpleasant people controlling me during my arena days,” he says, as if that’s an explanation. “They owned me. Quite literally. I was a showpiece as much as I was their warrior. Ugly modifications came with the territory.” He’s fiddling with himself, now, and you get a sinking feeling you know where this is headed.

“Is that why your spike is like…  _ this?” _

“Spike **s.** Plural,” he corrects, and the other finally slides out of the sheath. It’s a mirror-twin of the one still stuck in you. You just stare. And stare. And stare some more.

You’re struggling to scrape together something to say that isn’t “what the fuck” or “Primus alive”, and coming up bupkis.

“Primus alive,” you say. “What the fuck,” you add, for good measure. He just grunts. “One was enough!” Hey, something new, there.

“I know,” he sighs, and it’s rather weary for someone who just whipped out a  _ second Pit-damned spike. _

“What am I— _ what do you want me to do with this?!” _

“Nothing, right now. My main concern is getting you off me. Then we can deal with it.”

“I am not riding that,” you say, giggling in borderline hysterics.

“I’m not asking you to,” he says, and sets his hand on your hip. It’s reassuring—or supposed to be. You’re just reminded how much bigger he is and how bad your valve should be hurting and how  _ insane _ this situation just got.

“I need to go,” you huff, suddenly urgent, and try to get up. ...Only for that horrible pulling sensation to drag you back. His hand locks onto your hip, iron grip and gladiator strength trapping you together just as much as his barbed spike is.

“Stay still,” he rumbles in your ear. “I don’t want to hurt you.” Your doorwings bop against his chest when they try to shoot up and flick with a chill. You tell yourself it was just the room being cold and  _ not _ his voice.

“I think this is gunna hurt regardless.”

“No. Watch.” He reaches down, careful not to budge you too much, and slides a claw into your valve aside his spike. He wiggles it a little, gently easing one of the barbs out; the rest fold away with it. He slides out like normal, then. You instantly snatch his hand off yourself and slide away, pinching your knees together to make up for the horrible emptiness.

“Okay. Great.” You tuck yourself a good distance from him, gripping the side of your bed. “My valve is so  _ fucked.” _

“It will heal,” he replies evenly. “It will hurt for some time, but it will heal.”

“Yeah, not very goddamned well, Mister  _ I’m-Going-To-Dump-Ridiculous-Amounts-Of-Transfluid.” _

“They won’t get infected. If anything, it will flush the wounds.” He shrugs, a lazy ruffle of pauldrons. “I’m sterile.” You blink. Once. Twice.

“...Sterile?”

“Yes. I cannot conceive or bear children. I wasn’t made for it. The modifications to remedy that are expensive and too lengthy of a process for my tastes.” Somehow, you feel sorry for him.

“That… kinda sucks.”

“It’s never bothered me.” He looks down to your thighs. “We should get you cleaned up, though. Letting energon sit is bad.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” You nod and try to stand, pushing the surprising—and growing—list of personal confessions from him out of your mind. Your knees are wobbly and barely hold, but he catches you, hooking hands under your arms.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “I took a lot out of you.” You glance to his spike, stained cyan.

“Yeah. And you still aren’t done.”

“You got the majority of the problem,” he says, sternly, and helps you to the bathroom. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be joining you to clean up.”

“I can  _ get _ it,” you snap, and bat his hands away.  _ Hurt _ flashes over his face before it schools back into that cold, stony glare he gives everyone.

“Very well,” he says coolly, and walks out. Maybe throws a “nevermind on that” over his shoulder. You can't be sure over the water running.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fillerrrrrr. I've been kicking around an update for yonks, and this is all i can scrape together. ;w;  
> I've got some more in the works but unfortunately my heart has been _utterly stolen_ by the likes of TFU megatron.... [thicc tank man....](https://cdnb.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/000/447/603/large/tom-stockwell-megatron.jpg?1424785423)

You limp into the medbay the next day, wincing. You’re here for medication. And hopefully painkillers. ...And maybe something to clean your room with, honestly.

Megatron’s there, perched at the foot of a laid-horizontal slab. He catches sight of you and turns his head away, making some low, irritated scoff-grunt. You ignore him.

“Good morning to you too,” Knockout says, fighting down a smirk. You give him a pleading look, begging wordlessly for an easy visit.

“If that is all, Doctor?” Megatron prompts, and looks ready to stand. A claw in his face freezes him.

“I’m not done with you.” He stares down at it, looking like he’s weighing the pros and cons of crushing Knockout’s needly little hand in one of his titanic fists.

“I just want painkillers,” you say quickly, before the warlord decides to do it regardless. “I don’t need anything special.”

“Honestly, I  _ should _ be giving you an award for dealing with this one.” He gestures flippantly toward Megatron, whose brows pull down like an impending storm, eyes smoldering.

_ “This one _ has no patience for you today, Knockout,” he snarls. “Do your job or I will have someone ready to fill it for you.” The unspoken  _ after I murder you _ is pretty clear. Knockout looks unimpressed and waltzes off.

“Let me take care of this, since you ordered me to give them priority,” he says, huffy. “You two can work things out while I get everything together.”

“What is there to  _ work out?” _ you ask, folding your arms. It’s defensive. He glances at you, never making eye contact and shaking his head.

“Knockout has convinced himself that he is a psychologist and therapist as well as a physician,” he says, snidely. “His summary of last night was that I was too  _ violent _ with you.”

“I’m your prisoner,” you deadpan, shooting a confused look after the doctor.

“He thinks I’ve gotten too attached.” Megatron stands, cringing a little, and frowns downward. “It’s not working,” he reports.

“I told you I wasn’t done,” he calls over a shoulder. The warlord looks unimpressed and reaches to manually open the armor there; he sighs a little in something that might be relief as both spikes flop out.

“So. Still having issues.”

“No,” he replies. “You did the trick. Knockout is just doing some routine checks and administering some medication to clear up the last of the code.”

“I would call that still having issues,” you reply. He actually looks at you, frowning still. It’s brief, and then he returns his attention back down. You note how  _ apathetic _ he seems toward it, and wonder how much of your capture conditions were just a buildup toward his heat. There’s mixed feelings of inadequacy and nervousness about what he’s going to do with you  _ now  _ swimming in your chest.

“Here,” Knockout says, handing you the stuff. You take it and nod in thanks.

“I’ll be in my room,” you proclaim, and spin on your heel to walk out. The less time you spend eyeballing Megatron’s spikes from across the medbay, the better.

You remember, halfway there, that you never asked for something to clean up with. Resigning yourself to the mess, you bump the door open with a hip and head in.

You’re taking care of things when Megatron shows up again. You don’t look at him. He doesn’t seem to care.

“I brought something to clean,” he rumbles, and gets to work. You’re downing the medicated energon while he does, finishing shortly after he stands again.

“Thanks.” You set the cube aside, looking up at him. He’s staring. You stare back, askance.

“Last night,” he starts, halting; his eyes slide away and go dim, “no—earlier, in the medbay. You said—“

“I said a lot,” you interrupt, none-too-gently. He still doesn’t meet your gaze.

“You said you’re my prisoner.”

“...Am I not?” You quirk a brow, inclining your head. He looks conflicted for a long time, face fluttering through muted expressions.

“...Optimus Prime,” he retries. “He called. Asked about you. Asked me to—hand over your remains.” You sit back, vents stalling.

“He thinks you killed me?”

“I sent him your squadron.” He looks further away, like he can’t bear to see you even in his peripheral vision. “He was… angrier than I’ve seen him in a long time.” His voice is hardly even a murmur now, lips drawn tight across his jagged teeth.

“So you killed them. But not me. And I’m… not your prisoner.”

“I told you things no other mecha are privy to,” he mutters, eyes flicking towards you and away again.

“The spikes?”

“The sterility. Not even Soundwave knows.” His tone has gone remarkably clinical, and you’re sharply— _ painfully— _ reminded that you’ve made bedmates with a warlord.

“What about Knockout?”

“He watched me kill the medic who originally gave me the news. If he  _ does _ know, he’s too afraid to say it.”

“I believe it,” you mutter, rubbing your upper arm and giving it a squeeze. Lame self-reassurance, but needed in the presence of…  _ this. _ “So. I know things. I’m not technically a prisoner because you’re, what, afraid I’m going to tell someone? Who cares?”

“Starscream. Optimus. Ratchet. Soundwave. There’s a growing list who care whether or not I can bring about an heir to my throne.” You worry at your lower lip, searching his expression, masked as it is now.

“And you told me…”

“Because it would've come up eventually anyway.”

“You couldn’t have lied?” He looks at you, then, murky red eyes settling on yours.

“Would you have accepted that lie?”

“No,” you admit. “Probably not.” You sigh, lean back; cross and uncross your ankles. “If I thought I was getting knocked up by Megatron, I’d have busted a  _ few _ gaskets.”

“I figured as much,” he says, nodding. It’s not smug, just… flat agreement. “I’ve been accused of lying every other breath, but the truth is just as important as a well-crafted lie, sometimes.”

“So, what does this make us, if not lord and prisoner?” you ask, looking down at your hands in your lap. He scuffs a pronged foot at the floor paneling, grumbling something noncommittal.

“I don’t know,” he finally admits. “But I rather like having you around. You’re…” his eyes dilate and drift off, clearly unfocused as he dedicates his mind to finding the right words. “You’re easy to talk to,” he finally concludes.

“Never heard that before. Usually I get yelled at for talking too much.”

“That’s not what I mean.” His eyes focus on you again, and he tips his helm down, giving you the full intensity of one of his infamous glares. “You’re the first person that’s gotten me to open up in millennia.” He suddenly turns to fire and teeth like usual. “Optimus couldn’t have you back if he wanted to—you’re too valuable to me now.”

“As what? Your therapist that moonlights as a fuckbuddy?” That pulls his brows down, and he steps up to you, all steely grace and decisiveness.

“Title is irrelevant. You are  _ mine.” _

“Couldn’t have clued in on that, Captain Obvious,” you sneer, and he dives to your height, inches from your face.

“Do not think I will be merciful because of that. You can’t squawk my secrets when you’re offline,” he warns, rumbling and narrow-eyed.

“No,” you say, nodding in concession, even as a smirk curls your lips. “But you just short of confessed you like me too much to carry through with killing me.” With that, you lean forward to kiss him and steal away any retort he’s got boiling behind those fangs.


End file.
